


One very special cat

by amberfox17



Series: The Fluffy Adventures of Catboy Chris [1]
Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Animal Traits, Cat Ears, Catboys & Catgirls, Crack, Domestic Fluff, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hybrids, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catboy Chris AU: Tom wasn't even sure he wanted a Hybrid, yet somehow he's ended up taking home a six-foot Feline/Human cross named Chris who likes bacon, ear scratches and sleeping naked. This is going to be a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm blaming this squarely on [this fanart](http://arsonist01.tumblr.com/post/35081684911/huge-cat-hemsworth-and-hiddleston), [this manip](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6weo2iNxc1rv7995o1_500.jpg) and 10 years of reading yaoi manga which is something like 70% catboys, I swear. Beware of wild clichés!
> 
> Title from the following exchange from [Tom Hiddleston's webchat with Empire magazine](http://www.empireonline.com/interviews/interview.asp?IID=1424):  
> Kamospam says: Would you consider yourself a cat or dog person?  
> Tom: I've been both, but save one very special cat, I'm a dog person.

It’s all Ben’s fault, Tom decides, fidgeting in the sleek and no doubt designer leather chair in the pristine white reception. All Tom had done was ring him to complain, good-naturedly, about some of the problems he’s been having since his latest film took off; he loves having fans, he really does, but he’s been having a few problems lately with pushy people grabbing at him when he’s signing autographs, and it had gotten a little – a little nasty and a little frightening the last time he’d been out in public, enough to make him stop and think about how he’s handling his newfound fame. Plus, he’s been so busy with the press tours etc., that his flat is an absolute state. He’d been moaning that he needed a cleaner, or an occasional bodyguard, or maybe both, when Ben had cut him off.

“You need a Hybrid,” he’d said, with all the enthusiasm of a new convert. “Honestly, since I got Martin, I don’t know how I ever managed without him.”

Tom had hummed non-committally, but Ben had gone off _again_ about how amazing Hybrids are, how great Martin was for company, for helping him run through lines, for managing his schedule... “Honestly, Tom, he’s like the perfect PA crossed with the perfect cleaner crossed with the perfect companion.”

“I thought he was a terrier cross?” Tom had joked, and thankfully the conversation had moved on.

Tom likes Martin, even if he does growl ferociously whenever Tom gives Ben a hug, but he’s not sure he wants a Hybrid of his own. Oh, he knows they’re all the rage in Hollywood and the higher echelons of the business world, and he doesn’t have a problem with them, unlike the Human Genome is Sacred brigade, but...there’s a world of difference between employing domestic or security staff and actually _owning_ a genetically engineered and professionally trained animal-human Hybrid.

But once the idea was there it had niggled away at him, helped along by Ben’s constant harping on about the wonders of Martin, and now he’s here, in the reception of London’s most prestigious Hybrid Agency, wondering if he can do a runner before the friendly manager comes back with his cup of tea.

No, he can’t, because here she is.

 “So,” Jaimie says with a reassuring smile, “what are you looking for in a Hybrid, Mr. Hiddleston?”

“Uh, it’s Tom,” he says, smiling back automatically. “I’m after a working breed,” he says; at least, that’s what Ben had suggested, and Jaimie nods, so he continues on. “I need one suitable for bodyguarding work, mostly crowd control at public events, keeping me on schedule, that sort of thing, and some light companion duties – maybe a bit of housework from time to time. I travel a fair bit, so I need adaptability, but I’ll also be leaving them in my flat from time to time, so I need one that can cope with independent living.”

“Right, right,” she says, pen scratching as she makes notes, working through the checklist on her pad. “And you live in a flat? How big? Garden access? No? Access to exercise facilities? Excellent. What are your hobbies? Any sports? Yoga, right, lovely, ok...ok. Hmm. Last question: are you a cat or a dog person, Tom?”

“I’ve been both,” Tom says, “but I suppose I’m more of a dog person.”

“Great, great,” Jaimie says and sits back in her chair, tapping her lips with her pen as she thinks. “Now, we normally recommend Canine Hybrids for security work,” she says after a moment, “but your lifestyle would be a better fit for a Feline. Canines do well with structure and routine, and need a lot of exercising; they also get emotionally attached very quickly and become destructive if left alone for any length of time. If you decide a Canine is what you’re after, I would strongly recommend you have a pair, so they can keep each other occupied. A pair doesn’t cost much more than a single for our purposes, but obviously they do require a bit more in food, vet bills etc. On the other hand, Felines are harder to train from a working perspective, but as it so happens, we have a rather...unusual individual that might just be what you’re after, if you’re willing to take on something a bit different.”

“Right,” Tom says, a bit bewildered. He’s really not familiar with Hybrids at all.

“Relax, Tom,” Jaimie says with a grin, pushing her dark hair back behind her ears. “You don’t have to decide right now. It’s a big decision, after all. Shall we have a look at the brochure first? See if anyone takes your fancy, and then we can do a bit of a meet-and-greet.”

“Great,” he says, relieved, and pulls his chair round so she can show him a thick ring binder labelled ‘Working Breeds’, with two dozen sections, one for each Hybrid on the agency’s books. Each section has a set of photos, showing a head-and-shoulder shot of the Hybrid, professionally taken, alongside what are presumably personal snapshots, taken by the agency or the Owners, showing the Hybrid playing, sleeping, looking happy and content with various people. Tom leafs through, fascinated: there’s a brief biography, detailing breed, parentage, personality and working history; a key facts sheet listing skills and experiences and a testimonials page, with cards and hand written comments amid the typed formal references.

There’s definitely more Canines than Felines in the pack, although there’s another ringbinder on the coffee table called ‘Companions’ and another by the desk labelled ‘Family & the Elderly Specialists’, so this is clearly not all the Hybrids they have.

His eye is caught by a tall, fierce-looking Canine called Michael and he points him out to Jaimie.

“Ah, yes, he’s an excellent choice for bodyguard work,” Jaimie says, nodding. “A German Shepherd cross, highly intelligent, very well trained. _Very_ intimating in the flesh, but a sweetheart underneath. He would have to be part of a pair though: he’s very attached to James and we wouldn’t separate them -” She flicks over Michael’s section and points to a cute floppy-eared spaniel mix with big, blue eyes. “James is an excellent Companion, very domestic, and they complement each other well.”

Tom nods, but he’s not sure he wants the responsibility of taking on a pair, and he suspects that ‘very well trained’ and ‘very domestic’ equals ‘very expensive’.

He keeps looking through, marvelling at how attractive all the Hybrids are; they are bred for aesthetics as well as attributes, of course, but it is truly remarkable just how beautiful they are, smiling up at him from their glossy shots. He hesitates over an extremely good-looking Feline with a wicked smirk in almost all of his candids, but the fact sheet lists his expertise as in PR and providing a witty and entertaining escort service for formal events.

Jaimie shakes her head slightly when Tom glances up. “Robert’s a charmer, oh, yes, but quite a handful. I’m not sure he would be a good fit for you. He’s very, _very_ vocal and, shall we say, somewhat high-maintenance.”

Fair enough, Tom thinks, at least she’s being honest with him. He keeps flipping through but no-one else jumps out at him. He puts the binder down and sighs.

“May I make a suggestion?” Jaimie says. “We’ve had a new arrival recently – we haven’t had time to add him to the book yet. He’s a Feline, but a rather unique one, and he’d be ideal for security work. I think he might be just what you’re after.”

“Sounds perfect,” Tom says, watching her carefully. “So what’s the catch?”

She laughs. “No catch, as such; he’s just a bit of an oddity. He’s been bounced around a few different agencies and he’s getting a bit dejected. I’d like to find him a placement, but I wouldn’t try and foist him on the wrong person, Tom. That would be no good for him – or for us, when you came back unhappy.”

“OK,” Tom says, interest piqued. “So tell me about him.”

“He’s a rare breed,” she says. “An Australian breeder wanted to experiment with some of the lesser known existing cat breeds, see if he could create a Hybrid that had a mix of Feline and Canine traits. Have you ever heard of the Turkish Van Cat?”

Tom shakes his head.

“It’s a rare breed of domestic cat – quite unusual in that it loves water. They are often called ‘Swimming Cats’,” she explains. “They are agile, strong and highly intelligent and they are very people-orientated and affectionate. You can train them to play fetch, to go for leashed walks and they’re very energetic. They are also very large and muscular cats.”

“Ideal for a working Hybrid,” Tom remarks and Jaimie smiles.

“Yes, exactly. I think the original idea was to train them for lifeguard duty, as an alternative to Retrievers, which require much more one-to-one contact with their Owners. Vans like to be in the company of people all day, but like all cats, they do sleep for more than 12 hours, which makes them ideal for high-intensity shift work. Lifeguards, firefighters, emergency personnel...it was an ambitious idea, and took a lot of time and effort, but eventually there was a success. The Hemsworth brothers.”

“There were three of them in the initial litter: Luke, Chris and Liam. Excellent Hybrids, responded well to training, exactly fit for purpose. The trouble is, as the first litter, they were used mostly for showcasing, and for very little actual work. The second- and third-generation Vans have proved very popular, especially in rural areas, but the three boys had the run around for years, touring all the different agencies, never settling anywhere or with anyone. Luke and Liam have since gone onto permanent adoptions and are doing very well, but Chris...well, Chris has had a tough of time of it and the sad thing is, it’s really not his fault.”

“You see, there was a lot of buzz around them at first, new Hybrids, spectacular looking breed, so on and so on, but once that died away, what you actually have is something that is a bit of a mixed bag – he’s got the enthusiasm and energy of the larger dog breeds, but with the independence and attitude of a cat, and he’s a big guy – six foot plus. He’s a real looker too, and well, that attracted the wrong kind of people. A lot of the other agencies placed him with anyone who asked for him, but it meant a lot of returns because he’s very, very affectionate and loves to play, and for a lot of people, he was just too much. The dog-lovers weren’t interested in a Feline and the cat-lovers couldn’t handle him properly...he’s been back and forth so many times, to tell the truth, he’s developing a bad reputation. People think there _must_ be something wrong with him, and it’s turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“So why are you telling me all this?” Tom asks. It’s not exactly the best sales pitch he’s ever had.

“Because I’m determined to sort him out,” Jaimie says firmly. “He’s a lovely boy who just needs the right person. Someone who’s not fazed by his quirks, but takes him as he is. I honestly think he’s a good fit for what you want and, bluntly, you’ve the height and presence to not be intimidated by him, which would only be a good thing.”

“I don’t know,” Tom says, frowning. “I’ve never owned a Hybrid before, and it sounds like he’d be a lot of work...”

“Just come and meet him,” Jaimie asks. “See for yourself. Like I said, this is a big decision, so you should take all the time you need. If nothing else, you can get a look at the only Van in the UK.”

Tom wavers, but surely it won’t hurt to look. And he is curious now, to know what this rare and unusual Hybrid might look like. “Ok,” he says, and thinks he’s done the right thing when Jaimie’s face lights up. “I’ll take a look.”

***

Jaimie puts a call in and Chris is brought down from his living space to the Visitor’s Room while Tom waits in reception with another cup of tea. She explains that they’re giving Chris ten minutes to acclimatise to the room to make sure he’s in the best frame of mind to meet Tom; Chris does well with new people and new situations, she assures him, this is just standard procedure for all first meetings. Tom uses the time to google ‘Hemsworth Vans’ on his phone. He gets a mix of vans for hire in Yorkshire and pictures of shoes, which is not helpful, but there is one old article online, which has a scanned picture of the three brothers as kittens, looking nearly identical, all beaming into the camera, ears pricked forward and tails up high. There’s an interesting piece about the breeder too, which goes on at length about the Turkish Van as a domestic cat breed and has a hi-res photo of a big, glossy long-haired cat, almost pure white, but with reddish-gold fur on its ears and a gorgeous squirrel-style tail.

Soon, he is called forward, and with a deep breath he steps into the Visitor Room. It’s a bright airy space, with lots of sofas and chairs, a TV and a Wii, a selection of cat and dog toys and, oddly, a handful of hairbrushes and assorted hair accessories.

Chris is standing in the middle of the space, looking hopeful.

He’s...wow, well, Jaimie’d said a looker but _Christ_. He could be a model, Tom thinks, jaw dropping, as he takes in the eyes, the smile, the _huge_ arms...he’s bloody gorgeous. He has long blonde hair, pulled back in a low bun, and big blonde ears on the top of his head, fluffier than Tom had though they’d be. His tail is just as oversized as the rest of him, an enormous striped plume of golden fur, swishing anxiously from side to side behind him. He’s wearing a pair of loose jeans and a plain white t-shirt, perfectly ordinary; but he’s also wearing a chunky leather collar with a name tag, and the combination is...striking, to say the least.

Tom’s always been an animal lover and he’s been around enough pet cats to read the signs. The tail is up, which is friendly, but the twitching suggests he’s nervous, or maybe wary. But his ears are pricked forward and his body’s relaxed, so Tom feels comfortable approaching him. “Hi Chris,” he says, smiling, and extending a hand. “I’m Tom.”

“Hi Tom,” Chris says, with a pronounced Australian twang, which is delightfully unexpected. Tom stays perfectly still and lets Chris come to him, lets him sniff carefully at Tom’s hand before straightening up and shaking it without only the faintest hint of awkwardness.

“So...what happens now?” Tom asks, unsure of what exactly he should be doing. If Chris were actually a cat he’d be attempting a chin-scratch by now, but it seems too intimate for the huge and attractive man in front of him.

“It’s up to you,” Chris says, his whole being entirely focused on Tom. “We can have a chat, or you can groom me, or we can play a game...”

Groom him? Is that what the hairbrushes are for? He can’t help noticing Chris’ flat and hair-free stomach where his t-shirt is riding up. Where does the fur begin and end? “Shall we play a game?” Tom says quickly, before that train of thought can continue.

“I’d love to, mate,” Chris says, eyes lighting up. “Do you like Mario Kart?”

It’s one of the most surreal experiences of Tom’s life: sitting on a vibrantly orange sofa in a public room, playing an incredibly aggressive game of Mario Kart with a complete stranger who whoops and shouts and elbows Tom in the side whenever it looks like he’s losing, huge tail thrashing from side to side, sharp, ever-so-slightly pointed teeth bared as he races ahead. It’s great fun, and Tom quickly figures out that if he angles his wrist in the right way the sun catches on his watch and casts an irresistibly distracting reflection on the wall above the TV, which puts Chris off every time.

It’s almost like a date, Tom thinks in surprise, and then realises what an utterly inappropriate thought that is. He’s supposed to be deciding if Chris will make an adequate Companion, somewhere between a pet and a live-in employee, and he really should not be thinking about how cute Chris’s smile is, or the way the muscles in his legs move as he tenses up and then relaxes every time Tom lobs a Blue Shell or banana his way in game. But if it _was_ a date, then Tom might be thinking that he really likes this guy, that they’re getting on remarkably well, and that he feels really comfortable with Chris even though he’s only known him for a few minutes...

It’s not until Jaimie appears at the door with a theatrically loud knock that Tom realises they have been playing for over an hour. Tom pauses the game and stands, apologising profusely. Behind him, Chris quietly gets to his feet.

“So, what d’you think?” Jaimie asks when Tom runs out of steam.

“I – I’m not -” Tom starts hesitantly. He’s had a blast but taking Chris in would be a huge commitment and, if he’s honest with himself, slightly more complicated than he’d originally thought.

But then he looks behind him and Chris is standing quietly, looking at the floor, his ears drooping dejectedly and his tail limp and lifeless, and Tom can’t do it to him. He just can’t.

“I’ll take him,” he says and then pitches forward as Chris ambushes him with a sudden and powerful hug.

***

It’s not quite as simple as that, of course; there’s huge amounts of paperwork to fill in, contracts to sign, questionnaires to complete, fees to pay and then Jaimie asks him if he can leave something behind with his scent on it, so Chris can get used to it before he moves. The only thing Tom can leave is his scarf, and he’s a little worried about it as it’s one of his favourites, a merino wool with a houndstooth pattern, but she promises it will be returned to him with Chris and really, it’s only a scarf.

The next step is to arrange a home visit from the agency before he can take possession of Chris.

“The waiting list for an appointment is usually a fortnight, but as it happens,” Jaimie says with a broad wink, “I’m available for a home visit tomorrow morning, if that’s convenient for you?”

“Thanks,” Tom says, and goes home a bit shellshocked, minus his scarf but armed with a thick book entitled ‘Proper Care of your Hybrid’ and instructions to read it through before the visit. It has a huge amount of detail, most of which Tom will have to read at least three or four times before he can properly take it in, but the key points for initial integration are helpfully summarised in a tear-out checklist that he sticks on the fridge.

He clears out the small box room so he can actually unfold the sofa bed stuffed in the corner. He makes it up with the bedding from his own bed, unwashed, which feels very strange, but the books says that all Hybrid’s are brought up to associate their Owner’s scent with safety, and that it will help with the bonding process. Chris is fully house-trained, Jaimie had assured him, and will cook and eat human food on human plates, but as a Feline Hybrid he cannot digest vegetables and so should be fed on a strictly carnivorous diet, supplemented with a vet-approved dry food (available from the agency and all good supermarkets).

There’s actually very little else to do; the book had recommended against a full house clean, again to promote the Owner’s scent, and since he’s taking Chris on a one month initial trial, there seems little point buying expensive accessories. Chris will bring his own clothes and a set of toys and other entertainment sources, Jaimie had said; Tom already has a games console and various games, and after a bit of rummaging he finds a set of tennis balls and the Nerf guns that were a joke present last Christmas and puts them in a basket in what is now Chris’s room.

At a bit of a loss, he sits down with the book and starts reading it again, as he has the distinct feeling he’s getting in over his head.

***

The next morning Jaimie arrives promptly at ten. The home visit goes well, which is a promising start. She seems happy with the flat, although she points out a few breakables positioned on shelf edges that it might be wise to move, since Chris is, apparently, boisterous when happy. She inspects the downstairs gym and is very pleased by it, especially as Tom already has a spare key for the equipment.

Jaimie laughs when she sees the bed Tom has set up for Chris. “No, no, it’s a great idea,” she says when Tom nervously asks what he’s done wrong. “But Chris gets...very fond of his Owners. He’ll want to sleep in your bed.”

“I’d rather he didn’t,” Tom says, feeling a bit flustered at the idea of Chris in his bed, even though all the cats he’d had as a child had always slept at the bottom of his parent’s bed.

“Well, just be firm with him,” Jaimie says, grinning. “Very firm. And ignore his whinging. He’ll learn.”

“Got it,” Tom says, and the inspection continues without incident. Once she’s satisfied with everything, they sign the final bit of paperwork and arrange for Chris to be dropped off that afternoon at 5p.m.

“You’ll do fine,” she says as she’s putting her coat on to leave. “Keep him in the flat for the first week, and then introduce him gradually to the rest of the building. Don’t take him outside for at least a fortnight. Any problems, no matter how small, give me a call. And if it’s really not working out, just bring him back. We won’t make a fuss and if it’s in the trial period, we’ll refund you in full.”

“Ok,” Tom says, taking her card. She steps out of the door, waving away his offer to walk her downstairs.

“Just one more thing,” she says, hesitating on his doorstep. “If you can...if you can, please take him to the beach. Or anywhere he can swim. He won’t say anything, but I know he’s pining. And it’s really something, seeing him in the water.”

“He likes to swim?” Tom says, surprised; she had said that Turkish Vans were ‘Swimming Cats’, but it just seems such a strange thing for a Feline to enjoy.

“He can surf,” Jaimie says, and she laughs at Tom’s poleaxed expression. “He’s an Aussie at heart, Tom. I know he misses it. And he does look good in a wetsuit!”

***

By ten to five Tom is wondering if he’s made a huge mistake. The flat is ready, he’s sure of that, and he’s practically cleared out the chilled meats section of his local supermarket to fill his fridge, but until yesterday he’d never really thought about owning a Hybrid and now one is about to move in with him. He’s not sure whether to think of Chris as a new flatmate or a new pet, but either way, he’s thinking he probably should have taken more time, looked around a bit more, had a talk to his friends and family. His mother will have a _fit_ when she finds out. 

But then the doorbell rings and it’s too late to back out.

Chris looks even bigger than he remembers in his flat, eyes huge as he looks around, a duffel bag clutched to his chest. He’s wearing Tom’s scarf, wrapped tightly around his neck, and Tom is relieved to see it is perfectly intact. He gives Chris the tour, such as it is, demonstrating the dodgy shower and showing him where the glasses and drinks are kept. Chris is silent and cowed, shoulders hunched and ears low.

“Shall I show you your room?” he asks, and Chris nods, all his self-possession and confidence seemingly left back in the surroundings he was used to. Tom settles him on the sofa bed, pointing out the cupboard and shelves he’d cleared for Chris to use, and then leaves him to it, closing the door as he goes.

The book had said this would happen, that even the most outgoing Hybrid found the transition period deeply unsettling. It had recommended that the new Owner stay within earshot, so the Hybrid knows they are not alone, but that they should be left alone in a closed room until they feel comfortable enough to initiate contact.

Well, the flat is small enough that pretty much everywhere is within earshot, so Tom chooses to settle himself on the sofa in the open-plan living and dining space, his back to the closed bedroom door, and turns on some mindless telly. If Chris isn’t out by seven, he’ll start his tea, but he’s hoping they can sit down to eat together.

In fact, it’s only an hour before the door opens and Chris bounds out, cheerful and excited. He’s still wearing Tom’s scarf, which Tom assumes is a positive sign, and pads around the flat bare-foot, opening and closing everything, looking in all the drawers, and sniffing everything in reach – which, as Chris is even taller than Tom, is pretty much everything. Tom stays put and alternates between watching the telly and watching Chris.

“I’m hungry,” Chris announces once he’s completed his circuit, hands on hips.

“I’ll get cooking then, shall I?” Tom says, amused. He’s planning on teaching Chris how to do most of the chores, since he can never seem to find the time between jobs, but cooking is more of a hobby, so he’s happy to share the load.

“What are we having?” Chris asks, following him into the kitchen area.

“Since it’s a special occasion, I’m having steak and chips,” Tom says, flashing Chris a grin. “You are having steak and steak. Unless you want something else?”

“Steak,” Chris says in awe. “Tom, I love you.”

Tom laughs, but it’s a little forced. Chris is just too appealing to be standing this close to Tom and saying things like that with apparent sincerity, Hybrid or not.

The book had had a very long section on what was dryly titled ‘Interspecies Interaction’. Hybrids look and act mostly human, and since humans can always be relied on to be very human when faced with attractive and attentive companions, what the book called ‘intimate contact’ was an inevitable consequence. Which is fine, as long as the Hybrid gave consent – there were very strict rules and guidelines in the contracts and there had been more than one high-profile legal case in recent years – and most of the time, Hybrids were more than happy to consent or even initiate. They had strong instincts, after all, and imprinted very quickly on their Owners. The problem was that while Hybrids looked and acted mostly human, they certainly didn’t _think_ and _feel_ like humans.

Exactly what kind of consciousness a Hybrid possesses was still being fiercely debated in scientific circles, but out in the real world the consensus was that Hybrids are certainly attached to their owners and often to each other, and are capable of loyalty and affection and desire. But love? Love is a human concept, everyone says, and Hybrids are simply not capable of it.

It’s an ideal situation, really, for most people: a devoted companion more than willing to sleep with you, but uninterested in professions of emotions and perfectly happy to share you with other Hybrids or human partners, or simply to move on when the contract ends. But the thought makes Tom uncomfortable, although he can’t quite articulate why, and he just doesn’t want the complication right now.

“Do you prefer rare or well-done?” he asks Chris weakly, and concentrates on cooking, Chris a somewhat less-than-helpful presence at his elbow throughout.

The meal is uneventful, Chris eating tidily with knife and fork, quite overjoyed with his steak with a side of steak and glass of water. Tom drinks a bit more wine than he normally would, but he thinks he deserves it, especially with Chris staring at him like he’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.

“Film?” he suggests after they do the pots, Chris happily splashing away in the sink as Tom dries. He gives Chris the choice and is not entirely surprised when he picks an action film about car racing. Chris clearly has a fondness for fast movement and bright colours on screen.

Tom sits on the sofa and within moments Chris joins him, sprawling out so he can put his head in Tom’s lap. It’s a bit of a squeeze for two tall men, but Tom is thrilled. It’s a great sign of trust – the book had warned that a Feline Hybrid could take days to want human attention, and even Canines often took a few hours to settle enough to want to cuddle. He runs his fingers through Chris’s hair as they watch the film, scratching at the base of his ears, and Chris purrs in contentment, his chest vibrating against Tom’s thigh.

It’s easy and feels natural, and Tom’s confidence begins to return. This was a good choice, he thinks, and he really must remember to call Ben and thank him. By the time the film ends it’s almost eleven, and Chris seems happy enough to go to his room when Tom announces he’s going to bed.

“Goodnight,” Tom says as he shuts Chris’s door and it only takes a few moment to turn everything off in the flat and lock the door. He closes his own bedroom door, strips and gets into bed, feeling overall very pleased with how their first evening has gone.

***

Everything is fine for about an hour or so, and then the problems start.

“Tom!” Chris shouts, his loud voice shattering the silence, and Tom flies bolt upright.

“What! What?” He leaps out of bed, terrified that there are burglars or the flat is on fire or Chris is choking or something else utterly unlikely, and flings open the door in a panic.

There are no burglars, no fire, no crisis. Chris standing in the living room, perfectly fine and...perfectly naked except for his collar. “What?” Tom demands again, more coherently now that he’s actually awake, refusing to look anywhere but Chris’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Chris just stares at him. “I want to sleep with you,” he says.

Tom sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Ok, well, it’s better than there actually being something terribly wrong. Jaimie had mentioned this, hadn’t she? Just be firm, she had said. Right.  “No, Chris. Go back to your room.”

“I want to sleep with you,” Chris says stubbornly, and tries to push his way past Tom into the master bedroom.

“No,” Tom snaps, flinging his hands out to block Chris’s path. Chris pouts at him, ears drooping.

“I want -”

“Get in your room,” Tom growls and with a sulky look, Chris does, his tail twitching violently.

Tom goes back to bed, glancing at the clock as he does so. It’s just gone midnight.

There’s a suspicious crash about twenty minutes later. Tom stares at the darkness and decides it’s really not worth investigating, especially when he hears a not-so-stealthy scratching at his bedroom door. He grits his teeth and tries to sleep.

The yowling starts at 2a.m. Tom wakes abruptly from a strange dream about pineapples to a long, drawn-out howling, as if Chris is being tortured to a violin accompaniment. He rolls over and puts the pillow over his head. Ignore it; that was the advice, right? Ignore it until he stops.

Except he doesn’t stop. The horrible, ear-splitting, endless yowling goes on and on and on, until Tom is certain his neighbours are going to be banging on the front door any minute, and he’s just about ready to murder Chris himself. He gives up and slams the door open.

Chris is on the other side, looking completely innocent.

“Tom!” he says happily, and pulls Tom into a suffocating hug. “I missed you!”

“It’s 2a.m,” Tom snarls, fighting to extricate himself from Chris’s grip. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I want to sleep with you,” Chris says, as if this is a reasonable explanation for the hellish noise.

“No!” Tom shouts, temper fraying, and Chris shoots him a startled look, ears laid flat, before bolting for the bedroom.  _Tom’s_ bedroom.

Tom stands in his living room, clenching and unclenching his fists, and wishes a fiery death – no, no, a obscenely painful AND fiery death on Ben for suggesting he get a bloody Hybrid in the first place and on Jaimie for convincing him to take Chris.

But there’s nothing he can do about it at 2a.m. in the morning and right now, all he wants is to get some sleep. He stalks back into the bedroom and glares at Chris, who is sprawled out on his stomach on the bed, unconcerned by his or Tom’s nudity.

“Just for tonight,” he warns and Chris smiles at him, already snuggling into the duvet. Tom climbs into his side and shoves at Chris until he has approximately half the bed to himself again. Chris is purring, and the rhythmic sound is pleasantly soothing as he drifts back into sleep, Chris a warm and heavy weight at his side.

It’s blissful until about 6a.m.

“Tom. Tom, I’m hungry. I’m hungry, Tom,” Chris complains, prodding and pulling at Tom no matter how times Tom tells him to shut up or pushes him away. “I’m hungreeeee,” he whinges, voice rising in pitch until Tom rolls over and stares at the ceiling.

“Fine. Fine!” he snaps and drags himself out of bed, not bothering to pull anything on. No-one can see into the flat and he is _not_ getting up. He’s just going to feed Chris, which will hopefully _shut him up_ , and then he is going straight back to bed to catch up on his sleep.

Tom staggers into the kitchen and hunts blearily in the cupboards until he remembers where he put the dry food box the agency had given him. He pours out a bowlful and puts on the table in front of Chris, who looks like a five year old on Christmas morning.

“Do you need a spoon or..?” Tom trails off as Chris digs in bare handed, grabbing handfuls of the small biscuits and eating them like popcorn. Tom takes one out of the box before he puts it away and has a proper look. The biscuits are roughly the size of a Malteser and about the same shape, but smell strongly – _very_ strongly – of bacon.

He’s contemplating tasting one, just out of curiosity, when he feels a tug on his elbow. It’s Chris and the bowl is spotlessly empty.

“Wow, you _were_ hungry,” Tom says, as Chris stares up at him with huge blue eyes, wordlessly pleading. Tom sighs and holds out the bacon biscuit.

But Chris doesn’t take it; instead he leans forward and eats it out of Tom’s hand, rough tongue swiping across Tom’s fingers as he daintily bites down. It’s – it’s something and Tom is suddenly very aware that they’re both naked.

“I’m – I’m going back to bed,” he manages, once Chris has licked his fingers clean and snuffled hopefully at his hand. It’s too early to be dealing with this.

“Great,” Chris says, following him back to the bed, and then flopping down next to Tom, his head on Tom’s shoulder and his legs tangled with Tom’s. The purring starts back up again almost immediately. It would be lovely if it wasn’t for the fact that Tom is painfully aware that he is naked and in bed with a gorgeous naked man with no concept of personal space.

This is going to be a problem.

***

Four hours later it’s a _big_ problem.

Tom slowly comes to as Chris rubs his face against Tom’s, his purring almost deafening at such close quarters, his stubbled cheek scraping against Tom’s.

“Morning, Chris,” Tom says sleepily, and tries to raise a hand to rub his eyes.

It’s at this point he realises Chris has pinned him to the bed.

He jerks reflexively, but Chris is definitely stronger than him, and all he manages is to buck up into Chris’s body, which is sprawled out over his own. His hands are trapped above his head and he is absolutely not going anywhere.

“What are you doing?” he snaps and Chris grins lazily at him, pupils huge in the shadowy room.

“I like you,” Chris says and rolls his hips, dragging his impressive erection along Tom’s.

 _Shit_. Tom’s entire brain shuts down for a heartbeat because he swears he’s had dreams like this, with huge and attractive naked men accosting him in bed but _shitshitshit_ , no, this is his Hybrid and this is _not_ a good idea.

“Chris, get off,” he says firmly, putting every ounce of authority he can into his tone, trying to ignore the insistent pressure against his far-too-interested cock.

“No,” Chris says, and starts licking Tom’s neck, his tongue rough and warm as it laps the sensitive skin, and Tom does not whimper, he does _not_.

“Chris...” he starts, but it comes out far breathier than he intended and feels Chris grin just before he bites down on the junction between Tom’s shoulder and neck, alternating between licks and sharp nips. He bucks again and ok, that time it was more of a moan than a whimper, but he needs to stop this before it gets out of hand.

“Chris, STOP,” he says loudly and Chris freezes. He pushes himself up so he can look at Tom properly, ears pulled back.

“Why?” he says, clearly confused. “You like it.”

Tom would love to argue, but he doesn’t need a Feline’s augmented nose to smell the desire in the room and his damn cock is refusing to lie down no matter how hard he tries to will his erection away. The book had taken pains to point out the difficulties in explaining consent issues and the human habit of saying one thing and meaning another to a species that relied on tactile and scent cues for relationships and had very little in the way of impulse control. No Hybrid would force an unwilling partner, but wanting to do something and actually choosing to do it are two very different things for humans, a concept Hybrids often struggle with.

 “I don’t want to,” he says instead, which is a half-truth at best. “Not with you. You’re my Hybrid.”

“So, what? I’m not good enough for you?” Chris spits, his tail fluffing out as he snarls. “Not human enough?”

“No, it’s not that,” Tom says, surprised; is this something Chris has experienced before? His anger is unexpected and the implications silence Tom for a minute.

“It’s because I own you,” he says slowly as he figures it out. “You didn’t choose to be mine. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

Chris snorts and ok, Tom can see his point, given that he still can’t move, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Humans,” Chris growls, but his tail is slowly deflating and the anger is ebbing away. “Yes, you own me, but I do have choices, Tom. I can choose to disobey you. I can choose to run away. I can choose who I am and what I do in the circumstances I find myself in. And right now, I am choosing to have sex with you. Because I want to have sex with you, and I know you want to have sex with me. So stop being so _human_ about it.”

Tom gapes at him, utterly flabbergasted. He has seriously underestimated Chris – and all Hybrids, actually. He’s not sure what to make of this new insight but with Chris staring down at him with predatory intent, he thinks perhaps he ought to start by listening to what Chris says.

“Ok,” he says and is rewarded with Chris releasing his hands and leaning back in to nuzzle at his face. Tom lets himself go, stops trying to overthink this and instead listens to his instincts, sliding his hands over the broad expanse of Chris’s back, his powerful shoulders and his thick neck, the collar cool next to Chris’s warm skin, before tangling them in his loose hair.

Chris slides his hands down Tom’s body to hold him by the hips and begins to rock against him, grinding his pelvis into Tom’s sloppily. It’s rough and a bit clumsy, but with Chris’s breath hot on his skin and his deliciously toned body pressing against Tom’s it’s enough to have Tom panting and writhing, trying to find the right rhythm, the right angle between their bodies to turn it from mmm-good to oh-fuck-yes.

He lets go of Chris’s hair and after a bit of fumbling manages to get his hand between them so he can work both their cocks together. Chris obviously like the idea because he lets go of his death grip on Tom’s hips to mimic his grip, helping Tom to slide his palm along their shafts and slide his thumb over the heads, spreading the precome over both of them. After a few passes Chris impatiently bats Tom’s hand away and takes over, bracing himself easily on one arm, his broader palm more easily covering both of them. Tom takes the opportunity to lick his palm and then gets hold of Chris’s cock, earning a low sound of pleasure at the slicker sensation.

Chris pauses to lick his own palm thoroughly and then resumes stroking them both, his forehead pressed against Tom’s, his eyes huge and fixed on Tom’s face. Tom is moaning, unable to stifle himself, and the sound seems to please Chris immensely. It’s good, no, fuck, it’s great, and Tom is gasping, his hips lifting as he approaches orgasm, clutching at Chris’s massive arms, moans turning to a long, drawn-out wail as he comes, the pleasure building and exploding in a white-hot flash, leaving him shaking through the aftershocks.

Chris is still pushing against him, desperate for more, so he reaches down and strokes him through it, spreading his own come over Chris’s cock. Chris’s mouth is open and he’s panting heavily, chest heaving, but he’s oddly quiet until, on a whim, Tom reaches round and grasps firmly at the base of his tail, digging his fingers into the knot of muscle where the tail meets Chris’s lower back and then Chris _yowls_ and comes hard, biting back down on Tom’s neck hard enough to leave a bruise.

Chris slumps against him, chest vibrating with a low, barely audible purr even as he gasps for breath. Tom wipes them clean with a corner of the quilt and turns to kiss him. Chris accepts the kiss, eyes open, but doesn’t really respond; instead, he stares at Tom for a long minute, blinks slowly, opens his eyes wide and then blinks them again. It’s a very deliberate act, so despite feeling a little foolish, Tom mimics it.

Chris bumps his head under Tom’s chin and rolls on his back, hands tucked into his chest, purring loudly. This one Tom definitely knows and so he scratches Chris under the chin and grins as Chris rolls and squirms with pleasure.

“I really – ngh - do like you, Tom,” Chris says, flushed and gorgeous, his muscles rippling as he stretches.

“I like you too,” Tom says solemnly, and then laughs as Chris tries to curl himself into a ball around Tom’s legs. “C’mon, lazybones, time to get up. I need some breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Chris says, suddenly upright and focused. “Can we have more bacon?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Tom says as he hunts for a pair of boxers. “You already had yours. Now, go put some clothes on.”

“But I’m hungreeeeee,” Chris whines as Tom hustles him out of the bedroom and into the living room, and then refuses to get dressed, forcing Tom to chase him around the flat with a pair of jogging bottoms until he gives in and cooks Chris a second breakfast of bacon, bacon and bacon.

It’s definitely a problem, but later, as Chris holds him up against the wall in the shower, determinedly licking the spray from Tom’s neck, hands tight on Tom’s arse, Tom’s legs wrapped around his waist, he thinks it's one he can get used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! The awesome [mrhiddles](http://mrhiddles.tumblr.com) drew fanart of naked catboy!Chris!!  
>   
> More updates! [ohloki](http://ohloki.tumblr.com) made these fabulous edits:  
>   
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for all of your support! As requested, here are the continuing fluffy adventures of Catboy Chris and his exasperated Tom!

It’s not as difficult as Tom thought it would be, living with Chris. The 6a.m. wake up calls are a perpetual nuisance, but on the other hand, he never has to set his alarm, and Chris’s punctual and persistent yowling at 1p.m. and 7p.m. provide Tom’s days at home with a very definite structure. He does struggle to keep Chris’s diet regulated, especially when Chris develops a bad habit of deliberately distracting him whenever he’s still eating and Chris has finished, so that he can filch any meat left on Tom’s plate, and trying to keep him fully clothed in the flat is a never-ending battle that Tom is definitely losing, but otherwise Tom thinks he’s coping quite well.

At least Chris is easy enough to keep entertained for the first fortnight he has to stay indoors, sitting in Tom’s big bay window and chirruping at the birds in the trees outside, playing every driving game Tom can find for him, perfectly happy to watch whatever Tom wants to, as long as can he lie in his lap and be petted. It helps that he sleeps for eighteen hours a day, sprawled out on the sofa as Tom works, on the sofa bed when Tom does chores, in Tom’s bed whenever Tom has to go out. After the first week Tom shows him round the building’s gym and he quickly adds a long workout to his day, coming back to the flat stinking and sweating and utterly exhausted and usually falling asleep as soon as he gets through the door, only to wake half an hour later full of energy and keen to pull Tom into the shower with him.

Even with the workouts, when he is awake, Chris is full of energy and loves to play. There’s not a lot of room in Tom’s flat, but he does what he can, getting Chris to clear as big as a space as they can in the living area so Tom can bounce a tennis ball off the wall for Chris and then duck as Chris launches himself at it and then brings it back for Tom to throw again. He likes to wrestle, although he has a bad habit of getting over-excited and kicking Tom in the stomach with what is definitely a disembowelling movement, so Tom learns very quickly to be careful that he stays standing while Chris yanks on his legs and tangles himself up in his own tail.

He also likes to try and hide behind the sofa so he can pounce on Tom’s ankles as he walks past; given that Chris is more than half the size of the sofa and it’s an open-plan room, he’s not quite as stealthy as he likes to think he is, but Tom still walks past from time to time, pretending to read a book, and yelps appropriately when Chris barrels into him and pins him to the floor.

And that’s Chris’s other favourite form of exercise: jumping Tom at every opportunity. He has a _lot_ of energy and he’s _very_ demanding when the mood’s on him. By the end of the first fortnight Tom is quite seriously thinking about googling the possible consequences of excessive orgasms.

It lessens slightly when Tom takes Chris outside and, after accompanying him on extensive laps of the surrounding area and changing the address on his name tag, gives him a key and a handful of cash and lets him go out as he pleases. Where he goes and what he does, Tom has no idea, but after the initial nerves he gets used to Chris to wandering off for half an hour to an hour at a time, coming back slightly scruffy and tired out and usually wanting a cuddle. Chris having a source of entertainment other than Tom gives Tom a chance to actually get some work done and, thankfully, forestalls an embarrassing trip to the doctors to discuss a Viagra prescription and some topical lotion for chafing.

Tom also quickly learns that while he may be more doglike than the average Feline, Chris has his fair share of specifically Feline traits. He cannot bear to be hugged or held down, even though this is exactly what he does to Tom, and will walk away from Tom if Tom tries to give him a cuddle when he’s not in the mood. He has a strong independent streak and flatly refuses to let Tom accompany him when he goes out for his wanders, though he will condescend to Tom taking him to the park to play with the Nerf guns, as long as Tom leaves him alone when he’s had enough. He’s most active in the early morning and evening, and this is when he’s most affectionate, wanting to rub himself all over Tom and meowing loudly if Tom doesn’t respond the way he wants. He’s selfish and demanding and utterly gorgeous.

None of this is a problem for a Tom.

What _is_ a problem are the presents.

***

Tom can tell there’s something wrong when he hears the door bang open and looks up from his book to see Chris with cupped hands and eyes like saucers.

“What have you got?” he asks warily, putting the book down and standing up.

“I brought you a present,” Chris says proudly and opens his hands.

The bird is panting shallowly, its whole body shaking with terror, lying half on its side, its beady eyes giving them what Tom interprets as an extremely judgemental stare.

“Oh, Chris,” he says, disappointed and unsure what to do; Chris just looks so pleased with himself and he should have expected it really, the book had mentioned it, and Vans have such strong hunting instincts...he knows he has to tell Chris off, try to get to him to understand why this is absolutely wrong, but his first priority is to see if anything can be done for the poor bird, which, as he looks closer, appears to be a starling. Tom takes a step closer.

The bird explodes out of Chris’s hands screaming like a jackhammer.

Tom shrieks in response; he can’t help it, he’d thought the thing was nearly dead and now it’s _in his face_ and the noise, what the hell, that’s not birdsong, it’s genuinely a jackhammer, a screeching mess of car alarm and mobile ringtone noises mixed with squawks and heavy machinery sound effects. The bird careens madly around the room, all but bouncing off the walls, clearly disorientated and Chris is off in hot pursuit, leaping into the air to try and grab the bird which somehow manages to flutter just out of reach.

Tom’s flat is part of an converted Victorian house, and so, like most of the conversions in this part of London, has lovely high ceilings and period touches, like the cast-iron fireplace and bay windows with the original sashes instead of modern PVC. Right now though, as Tom wrestles frantically with the stuck window, he would happily kill for a standard pre-fab development flat with sensible fire escape windows that open like doors. The high ceilings are no help to the agitated starling which, like most agitated birds, is lightening the load by crapping all over the flat, because Chris can jump five times his own height and is currently leaping like a jack-in-the-box.

Tom finally gets all the windows open but the stupid starling has no space awareness and instead of heading for the open window, as Tom had assumed it would, chooses instead to fly into the bathroom, which has no window at all. Tom and Chris fling themselves toward the bathroom at exactly the same time, but Chris is far too excited and skids on the hardwood floor, sliding past Tom in a flurry of fur and spitting. Tom slams the bathroom door shut, planting himself in front of it as Chris gets his feet under him and lunges forward.

“No!” Tom shouts as Chris tries to get the door open. “No! Chris! Get in your room!”

“I want the bird!” Chris shouts back, flinging himself at both Tom and the door.

“NO!” Tom roars at the top of his voice, but Chris is way past the point of listening. Tom hates to do it, he really does, but he’s out of options and Chris is too big and too strong for Tom to keep him out of the bathroom for long. He lets go of the door handle and then sidesteps as Chris rushes, twisting as he does so and grabbing Chris by the back of his neck.

It should be a poor grip, but once he gets a good handful of hair and digs his nails into the nape of Chris’s neck, Chris immediately goes limp.

He slumps against Tom, a bloody heavy deadweight, and they stay like that for a moment, panting heavily.

“Right,” Tom says, when he gets his breath back. “Get. In. Your. Room.”

Chris gives a low, drawn-out sound that’s part yowl, part whine, and all displeasure, but he doesn’t fight as Tom steers him into his room. Tom lets go of his neck and shuts the door, on the alert for Chris rushing back out, but all is quiet – well, not actually quiet, because Chris is meowing furiously, but he’s not actually trying to get out of his room.

When Tom carefully opens the bathroom door the starling is laying on the cold tiles, eyes glazed, looking even worse than it did before. Tom scoops it up, feeling the frantic heartbeat thudding against his palm, and quickly carries it to the open window in the living area. There’s no visible injuries, but Tom has a horrible feeling the poor thing is doomed from the shock.

“I’m sorry,” he says to it, feeling stupidly upset. There are thousands of starlings in London, maybe millions, but this little creature’s fate is his fault. He can’t even really blame Chris, who was only acting on instinct; it’s not his fault he was engineered with a Van’s hunting tendencies.

The bird just looks at him and he slides it gently onto the windowsill. Should he take it to a vet? Try and give it water? Put it out of its misery? He has no idea.

It’s not his choice in the end, because as Tom looks behind him, to double check Chris hasn’t slunk out of his room, suddenly the starling lets out another ear-splitting cry and then it’s gone, whirring out of the window and vanishing over the rooftops.

It’s left behind a trail of bird shit, some stray feathers, a flat in chaos and a madly meowing Chris. Tom slumps to the ground with his head in his hands. First thing tomorrow, he’s buying Chris a collar with a goddamn bell on it.

After a few moments of deep breathing he gets back up and lets Chris out. “The bird’s gone,” Tom tells him but Chris isn’t satisfied until he has inspected every nook and cranny and batted forlornly at the abandoned feathers. Tom stands in the middle of the room and waits until Chris comes back to stand in front of him.

“It was for you,” Chris says sadly, ears low.

“I appreciate the thought,” Tom says, with what he feels is admirable patience. “But I really don’t want any more birds. Or mice. Or rats. Or any living things at all.”

“Oh,” Chris says. “Shall I kill them for you?”

“Or anything that was _ever_ alive,” Tom adds quickly. “Really, I don’t need any presents.”

“But I want to make you happy,” Chris says seriously, and Tom chucks him under the chin.

“You do, Chris,” he says, and bar the chaos in his flat and the residual guilt over the likely imminent demise of the starling he means it, he really does.

“But I want to make you _happy_ ,” Chris says softly and drops to his knees, pulling Tom’s trousers down as he does so before leaning forward and taking Tom’s cock into his mouth. Tom makes an embarrassing whimpering noise and grabs at Chris’s broad shoulders.

“Chris -” he says with feeling, and Chris’s ears flick in response. His tongue is rougher than a human’s and his teeth sharp, but he is careful and gentle, and encourages Tom to thrust deeper as he swallows, using his throat muscles to envelop Tom’s cock in wet heat.

“ _Chris_ ,” Tom sighs, snapping his hips harder, his head tilting back and he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but as he fucks Chris’s mouth in earnest the words spill out, telling Chris how gorgeous he is, how much he adores him, how much he loves him and Chris starts purring and fuck, he can feel it vibrating up Chris’s throat and along his cock and it’s fantastic and Chris is looking up at him with utter devotion and it’s good - it’s so good – he can’t – and he’s coming, pouring himself into Chris’s mouth, gasping with the strength of his orgasm.

Chris releases him with a wet pop and sits back on his heels, licking his lips and looking smug.

“Now _I_ want a present,” he says and Tom rolls his eyes.

***

The next day Tom comes home with an actual present for Chris: a chunky red leather collar with a bronze bell nestled next to the name and address tag on the d-ring, gift-wrapped in eight layers of tissue paper. Chris is thrilled with the paper and spends a good twenty minutes tearing it to shreds and throwing it around like confetti. When he notices the collar he’s very pleased with it too, and insists on wearing it in the flat that evening.

Tom may or may not get a certain thrill out of putting it on Chris and then listening to it chime as Chris nuzzles against him; he will admit to a definite thrill as it rings out steadily as Chris pushes slowly into him and sets a lazy rhythm, a tiny high pitched jingle that punctuates Tom’s drawn-out sighs and Chris’s steady purr, and then a concordance of silver sound as Chris’s movements become faster and faster, Tom bent nearly in half beneath him, cries rising and rising in pitch until they both tumble into orgasm.

Chris keeps the belled collar on the next day and it has a distinctly Pavlovian effect on Tom, who cannot possibly concentrate with Chris _tinkling_ at him as he stretches, the harmonics of the bell resonating with his own aching limbs and all too vivid memories. When Chris comes back from his workout, drenched in sweat, and proceeds to start grooming himself, the bell chiming mockingly at Tom as Chris’s head dips and his tongue laps at his own skin, Tom’s patience and sanity snap and he drags Chris into the shower for an enthusiastic replay.

After, Tom goes and buys another collar with a bell with a distinctively _different_ sound, in royal blue, and designates it the Outdoor Collar. Chris obediently puts it on whenever he goes out, and although Tom’s not sure if it’s the bell or the rather belated stern talking-to that has an effect, at least there’s no repeat of the starling incident.

But a few weeks later, there’s another problem.

***

There’s a knock on the door and a deep voice sings out “It’s only me!”

Tom opens the door to see a grinning Ben and a po-faced Martin.

 “Come in, come in,” Tom says, slinging an arm around Ben in an awkward half-hug, ignoring Martin’s faint growl, and hopes he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels.

“Thanks,” Ben says, unwinding his scarf as he steps through the door, Martin close on his heels as always. Tom hadn’t been sure about Ben bringing Martin but he needs to know how Chris is going to reach to other Hybrids if he’s going to be taking him with him when he works. The advice book had recommended temperament tests be conducted in a safe, familiar environment, where the Hybrids could be easily separated if things went badly. Ben had assured him that Martin was great with other Hybrids, as long as they didn’t get up close and personal with Ben, which was pretty the same way he was with other humans.

Chris is also supposed to be fine with other people and other Hybrids, and has travelled much more extensively than Martin, moving around dozens of Hybrid Agencies and going through multiple placements. But he’s still a Feline and he’s not had much close quarter contact with Canines. Tom’s next project is with Ben, which inevitably means with Ben-and-Martin, so they’ll all be spending a lot of time together in the near future.

Tom has talked to Chris at length about Ben, emphasising how important it is to him that Chris make an effort to get on with him and Martin, since Ben is not just a colleague but a friend, and one that means a lot to Tom. Chris had listened, oddly subdued, and had agreed to meet them, promising to be good.

“Ben, this is Chris,” Tom says as Martin hangs their coats on the back of the door. “Chris, say hi to Ben.”

Chris is at the other side of the flat, curled in the bay window. He unfolds himself and approaches Ben, his gaze skittering from the humans to Martin, who is deliberately still at the door, frowning.

“Wow,” Ben says, eyes widening as he gets a good look at Chris. “Wow. Uh, hi, Chris.” He holds out his hand for Chris to sniff, and when Chris bends to do so, mouths ‘fucking hell’ at Tom. Tom grins.

“Hi, Ben,” Chris says as he straightens back up and shakes Ben’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Ben is staring at Chris, obviously stunned, and Tom’s more than a little pleased to see it’s not just him who has such a strong reaction to Chris. Behind him though, Martin has gone from frowning to scowling, arms crossed and foot tapping. Chris is all too aware of Martin and is glaring back, tail twitching slowly from his side to side.

“Martin, come and meet Chris,” Ben says, seemingly oblivious to the death glares the pair are exchanging.

Martin comes forward and plants himself immediately in front of Ben. “Chris,” he snaps, and it’s less a greeting and more a warning. Chris’s tail is swishing jerkily as he stares down at Martin, who barely reaches half-way up his chest.

“Martin,” he replies, and ok, Tom can see this is not going well.

“Shall we have a cup of tea?” he says brightly, and shoos Chris into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Martin settles on the sofa next to Ben, a proprietary hand on his leg, which Ben doesn’t seem to notice at all. He immediately starts talking to Tom about the period drama he’s just been cast in, and how it’s going to interfere with the _Good Omens_ schedule no end, but he really couldn’t turn it down, and Tom makes all the right noises as he watches Martin watch Chris, the latter’s tail now a flurry of golden fur, his ears pinned almost flat back against his head as he bangs about in the kitchen.

Is it because Martin’s a Canine? Tom wonders. Or because he’s so overprotective of Ben?

But while Chris is obviously tense, he hands over Ben and Tom’s tea without incident and then retreats back to the bay window, very deliberately staring out at the view. Ben takes this as permission to start quizzing Tom about him, as if he doesn’t notice the way Chris’s ears twitch at every word.

“He’s stunning,” Ben enthuses while Martin grimaces. “I mean, wow. Just look at the _size_ of him. I’ve never seen a Feline like him.”

“He’s a rare breed,” Tom says and then nods and tries to smile as Ben sings Chris’s praises. Martin, who is normally chatty and responsive, sits in total silence, expression thunderous. Chris, on the other hand, is practically preening, shooting smug glances at them from the window seat.

“Can I pet him?” Ben asks suddenly and Martin bares his teeth. Oh, dear.

“Uh…” Tom says, but it’s too late; Chris has come sauntering over, his tail high, and arranges himself at Ben’s feet, facing both him and Martin. Ben immediately starts petting, finger-combing his hair and scratching under his chin, while Chris pushes his head closer to Ben for more, slyly grinning at Martin as he does so.

You bastard, Tom thinks, outraged, and maybe a little jealous. Chris is supposed to be _his_.

“Oh, you’re _gorgeous_ ,” Ben exclaims and Chris purrs.

It’s the last straw for Martin.

“Get _away_!” he snarls and then he _snarls_ , a vicious, savage sound of pure aggression. Chris jerks away from Ben’s hand and hisses, the sharp sound transitioning into a low-pitched yowl as his tail fluffs out and he squares his shoulders, eyes locked with Martin’s.

“Martin!” Ben scolds and Tom starts to get to his feet, because yes, this is going to be a problem…

But it’s too late: Martin launches forward, bowling Ben over, and now he’s barking, actually _barking_ , incredibly loudly for a small man, completely unintimidated by Chris’s size. Chris’s yowl turns to a shriek and he turns tail and flees, crashing into Tom and knocking him over, racing in circles around the flat as he tries to escape Martin’s wrath. Half-drunk tea careens over the sofa and carpet, the pile of DVDs by the telly go flying, the coffee table and the pile of preliminary script ideas and character notes and a dog-eared copy of Good Omens are scattered like autumn leaves. Ben is shouting, Tom is yelling, Chris is practically yodelling in terror and Martin _will not stop barking_ and it’s a bloody three-ring circus, and oh, fantastic, that’s one bookcase and all its contents brought down as Chris tries and fails to climb it, this is ten times worse than the stupid starling, and there goes the chair and Ben’s tripped over it and this is Tom’s flat and Tom’s stuff and it is getting _wrecked_.

Eventually Chris manages to scale the fridge and huddles on top, the spare crockery and random blender that normally live up there in pieces on the tiled floor. It would be hilarious if Tom wasn’t so angry: Chris, huge and muscular and utterly terrified, perched precariously on a fridge-freezer while Ben drags the tiny but furious Martin away from him by the collar.

“I’m so sorry,” Ben is shouting over the noise. “I can’t think what’s got into him.”

“Really?” Tom snaps and God, he loves him, but how can be an intelligent man be so bloody stupid? “Look, just – just take him home, I’ll call you later, ok?”

“Ok,” Ben shouts and somehow manages to retrieve his coat and scarf while hauling Martin out the door, keeping up a non-stop litany of ‘no! bad boy!’ that utterly fails to have any impact on the yapping Martin. The door slams and mercifully, the howling fades as the pair make their way to the lifts.

Chris slithers down from the fridge and turns big, innocent eyes on Tom.

“ _You_ ,” Tom manages, apoplectic with rage, “you utter bastard -”

Chris tilts his head and looks at him for a long moment before taking his shirt off.

“Oh no – don’t think you can -”

But the trousers are gone too and oh look, today is another day that Chris didn’t feel like wearing underpants.

“Stop that,” Tom demands, as Chris slinks towards him, obviously trying to looking woebegone but with a tell-tale gleam in his eyes. “Look at what you’ve done!”

“I’m sorry,” Chris says, but he doesn’t sound it all. “Don’t be angry. I’ll make it up to you.”

“ _You_ -” Tom tries again, but Chris kisses him sloppily and as his hand slips down Tom’s trousers to palm his cock he’s finding it hard to stay angry.

“I’m sorry,” Chris says again, his body flush against Tom’s, his rising cock a warm pressure against Tom’s groin. “I quite like your friend, even if he has a horrible Canine. But you’re the one I want. You’re the one I belong to.”

“Ngh,” Tom says as Chris’s other hand undoes his fly, giving him more room to start working Tom’s cock properly. “I’m – I’m still angry with you -”

“Don’t be,” Chris murmurs and he lets go of Tom’s cock to push Tom’s trousers down, squeezing his ass and then he’s forcing Tom back, crowding him until his back hits the fridge. Chris lifts him easily but his legs are tangled in his trousers and Chris has to tug one leg out so Tom can wrap both of them around Chris’s waist.

“I don’t want anyone else,” Chris says, his cock bumping against Tom’s ass cheeks. “Ever.”

“Chris -” Tom starts to say, but Chris doesn’t want to listen and kisses him again, a little clumsily; it’s not a natural action for him, but he knows Tom likes it, and it’s probably the closest Tom’s going to get to a genuine apology for all this. Chris pulls away and smiles at him and Tom, foolishly, hopelessly, smiles back.

There’s a knocked-over bottle of extra virgin olive oil on the kitchen worktop, oozing slowly over the cupboards, and Tom knows he really should be making more sensible life choices, but he reaches for it anyway. Chris tracks the movement and his smile broadens.

He braces a knee under Tom, balancing him on it with his left hand steady on his shoulder, keeping him still and in place. Tom helps to spread clean oil over his right hand and tries not to move too much as Chris slowly works him open, tries to focus on Chris’s astonishing strength and dexterity and not the blunt pressure of his thick fingers sliding in and out of him.

He’s not that successful, but Chris just leans in closer when he wriggles, using his bulk to keep him steady and not stopping until Tom is keening in the back of his throat and begging for more. Only then does he slick his cock and push slowly into Tom, waiting until he’s comfortable, the burn and stretch a thrill, before sliding his hands back to Tom’s ass and lifting him up again so he can fuck him properly.

And fuck him he does, worrying at Tom’s neck as he does so, slamming into Tom with bruising force and maybe Tom’s not the only one who was a little jealous because with every punishing thrust Chris growls his name as Tom yelps and moans. It’s fast and brutal and Tom loves it, heedless of the cold at his back, clinging to the glorious heat in front and inside of him.

All too soon Chris comes with a grunt, teeth bared. “I want you to come,” he gasps, still buried in Tom, pressing their foreheads together, and Tom is all too happy to oblige, working a hand between their sweat-slick bodies to stroke himself frantically until he comes with a shout, his come streaking Chris’s stomach and staining the t-shirt he’s only just remembered he’s still wearing.

They slide to the floor in a tangle of sticky limbs.

 “You still have to clean up this mess,” Tom says hoarsely and Chris purrs in what may or may not be agreement.

***

“Teething troubles,” Ben says cheerfully when Tom calls to apologise, and maybe he has a point, because after a few more weeks Chris does settle down properly as his natural exuberance trumps any residual insecurity. He and Martin are never going to be friends, but they can be trusted to sit in the same room together, if not actually on the same sofa, and Chris copes admirably well with everyone else he meets. Tom’s flat actually stays clean and tidy for more than a day at a time, and he and Chris find an easy rhythm living together.

The biggest problem, however, comes a month or so later.

“I don’t want you to go without me.”

“It’s only for three days,” Tom says. “Just a quick TV promo and I’ll be home.”

“But I’m supposed to be your bodyguard,” Chris says, tail swishing angrily. “It’s in the contract. You wanted me to provide security at public events.”

“I know, I know,” Tom says, “and I do, but there’s no need. It’s just a quick interview and a couple of photoshoots. It’s not even the full cast, only me and Idris. There won’t be any autograph signing outside of the studio or meet-and-greets. It’s very low-key.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Chris says, and that is definitely a pout. “I want to come with you.”

“Chris, you can’t,” Tom says. “It’s just not practical: it’s a twelve-hour flight and my ticket is already booked; the hotel room is too small for the both of us, and it’s not a good environment for you.”

“I’ve been to Tokyo before,” Chris argues.

“I know, but you stayed indoors and you were given a long time to acclimatise,” Tom points out. “This is a flying visit. You’d hate it. You know you would.”

Chris glares at him but has no come-back, and so instead spins on his heel and stalks off, radiating disgust.

Tom sighs. He can’t say he particularly fancies the idea of going – he loves Tokyo, and it’ll be great to catch up with Idris, but twenty-four hours of flying for less than three days actually on the ground in the city? It’s going to be rough and he’s going to be jetlagged as hell both ways. He’d love to take Chris but it just _will not work_.

Chris wasn’t seeing it that way. Wasn’t the point of Felines that they were happy to be left alone for a few days? Perhaps Chris just needs a distraction? He hadn’t shown any interest in any extra work outside of the household chores and a bit of de facto personal training for Tom, and he has already had an excellent education, but maybe Tom should find something specific for him to do for the three days he’ll be gone.

Nothing springs to mind.

“Can’t your mum come and pet-sit?” Ben asks when Tom finally gives in and rings him for advice.

Tom thinks about his mum, alone in the flat with Chris for three days. He thinks about this morning’s battle to get Chris to put some damn trousers on. Apparently, they irritate his tail. “No, I really don’t think so.”

“Doesn’t he sleep most of the day anyway?”

“Well, yes, but when he’s awake he’s _really_ awake. I’m worried he’s going to get bored.” And lonely, Tom thinks.

“He’s pretty independent though, isn’t he? He’ll do whatever he normally does when you’re not there. Just give him a stack of DVDs and a new game and I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Tom’s already thought of that; there’s a pile of presents for Chris hidden in his bedroom drawer, carefully wrapped with lots of string so he can play with packaging and the contents. “Have you ever left Martin alone for that long?”

“What, for three days? No, he’d go spare - he’s a Canine. He just wouldn’t cope with it. But he has been apart from me for, oh, over a week. He stayed with my parents while I was away. He did get very antsy though, especially toward the end, so I haven’t done it since. But as I said, he’s a Canine. Chris is a Feline. He’ll do much better, I’m sure.”

“Right,” Tom says, not entirely convinced, and after a brief chat rings off.

Chris is even clinger than usual that night, repeatedly trying to settle on Tom’s chest and half-suffocating him in the process. They end up sleeping with Chris curled around Tom, hugging him tight to his chest, his chin resting on the top of Tom’s head. Tom doesn’t exactly sleep well being pinned by all that bulk, but he hasn’t the heart to pull away.

He feels awful in the morning as he finishes packing, Chris sat on the bed cross-legged and watching silently, ears drooping no matter how many times Tom scritches him under the chin. But there’s nothing he can do about it, so he leaves a forlorn-looking Chris standing in the centre of the apartment and sets off for Heathrow feeling incredibly guilty.

***

Tom stumbles out of Narita Airport midday local time and into the waiting car which whisks him away to his Shinjuku hotel. He desperately wants to sleep but knows that if he does he’ll be up in the middle of the night, and he needs to be fresh and coherent for the TV spot tomorrow. So he ends up strolling around Shinjuku, soaking up the vibrant energy of the place and trying to will his body into accepting that it’s mid-afternoon and not bedtime. Something is niggling at the back of his mind, trying to get his attention, but in the whirl of neon and towering skyscrapers he can’t quite put his finger on it. He’s so hazy with jetlag it’s not until he actually stops to get a coffee that he realises what it is.

There are Hybrids _everywhere_. Not actual Hybrids, although cat-ear headbands are obviously this season’s must-have accessory, but on the posters, billboards and commercials: dozens of smiling, posing and leaping Felines and Canines, selling mobile phone contracts, luggage forwarding and even starring in TV dramas and films. He’d known, in an abstract sort of way, that Hybrids were even more popular in South-East Asia than they were in America, and much more common than they were in the UK, partly because it was here that they were first developed. Still, it’s a real surprise to see so many working in their own right, as celebrities and actors and idols instead of just Companions.

He sorts through the flyers he’s been handed as he’s wandered around, too polite to turn them down, mostly restaurant offers and tissue packs, thinking that he might hang on to them to show Chris. There’s a wide range of Hybrids on the adverts, and as he takes a proper look, trying to puzzle out the pictures as he can’t read the katakana, he finds a leaflet for the Kaliko Kat Kafe. The English letters are decorated with cat pawprints and the back has a picture menu of drinks and cakes, so it’s fairly obvious what it is.

Tom studies the leaflet carefully, sipping the last of his coffee. He’s never been to a Hybrid cafe, but it’s only around the corner, based on the illustrated map, and his gaze keeps coming back to the smiling Felines on the front: a pair of cheerful Scottish Folds, a beautiful ginger girl pouncing on the tail of a grinning brunette man.

It can’t hurt, can it? And he does have time to kill...

After a few false starts and some very helpful passers-by, the Kaliko Kat Kafe turns out to be on the fourth floor of the shopping complex surrounding the train station. The reception area is full of huge framed posters of Hybrids and an astonishing array of cat-themed merchandise, including dozens of cat-ear headbands and belts with fluffy tails attached. Tom stares at them for much longer than he probably should.

The receptionist is bright and welcoming and puts up very patiently with Tom’s haltingly basic Japanese before handing him an English instruction booklet. The rules are very clear: no personal photos, no touching and no personal questions; the entry fee only covers the first hour and all time after that is chargeable; the various packages available for purchase (a drink and a photo; a drink, a photo and a game of your choosing; a drink and a cake and a twenty minute one-to-one chat...) Tom chooses the most basic, covering only the entry fee and a drink, and ticks the box for an English-speaking Hybrid.

He’s shown to a seat in the spacious cafe, exuberantly decorated in the same cat theme as the reception, and handed a menu and, bizarrely, a flower crown, which Tom puts on the table and promptly forgets about. The lunchtime rush has passed, and so there’s only a handful of people in, mostly tourists like Tom but also a few salarymen and parents with young children, all being entertained by immaculately dressed Felines. He sits and waits and wonders why he’s decided to come here. It’s barely been a day since he saw Chris; he can’t be missing him that much, surely?

“Welcome, new friend!” announces a voice with a clear British accent and Tom turns to see a lithe, curly-haired and startlingly attractive Feline smiling at him. He’s somewhat smaller than Tom, with fine-boned features and expressive blue eyes, but it’s his unusual fur that catches Tom’s eye: his fluffy tail and angular ears are covered in black ringlets, blending perfectly into his shaggy curls. Tom’s never seen a curly-haired cat before and has to stamp down on his instinct to reach out and touch.

“Hi,” he says, belatedly realising that he’s staring. “I’m Tom.”

“Pleased to meet you, Tom,” the Feline says and to Tom’s surprise extends a hand to shake. “I’m Hugh. Can I get you a drink?”

“Just a coffee, thank you,” Tom says, and Hugh vanishes into the next room, reappearing a few moments later with a creamy latte in a cat print mug.

“So, are you here for business or pleasure?” Hugh asks as he sits next to Tom.

“Work,” Tom replies, sipping at the latte. He’d actually meant an Americano, but the latte is well-made and he’s not complaining. He’s not sure how much he wants to say to Hugh; he’s seen a few people whispering behind their hands and he’s pretty sure someone took a photo of him as he waited to cross the road, but so far no-one’s asked for his autograph or asked for a picture with him. He’s happy to do both, but it’s nice to have a bit of anonymity.

But Hugh is a Feline, and beautifully trained manners aside, obviously has certain key traits in common with Chris. “Am I the first Hybrid you’ve met?” he asks, clearly uninterested in what Tom’s work might be.

“Um, actually, no,” Tom says. “I have a Feline at home.”

“Really?” Hugh asks, ears flicking in surprise. “What kind?”

“He’s a Turkish Van,” Tom says and Hugh gives a low whistle, a very strange noise for a Feline.

“So you’re a connoisseur then?” he says, eyeing Tom thoughtfully. “A fancier of Rare Breeds?”

“Well…” Tom says awkwardly; he’s not sure he likes that description at all. Chris is Chris: that’s why he likes him, not because of his unusual pedigree. But Hugh isn’t really listening and starts up a conversation about the history of his own breed, the Selkirk Rex, and that of the other rare types that apparently work in the café.

“Do you like working here?” Tom asks, when he can get a word in, hoping that it’s not too personal a question.

Hugh doesn’t seem to mind. “I love it!” he says cheerfully. “I get to meet lots of new people and I really like living with the other Felines. We have a huge apartment upstairs,” he explains, “and we only have to come down for an hour or two at a time. And if we don’t want to, or if we meet a customer and don’t like them, we can go back up and Mads will sort out someone else to come and cover.”

“Mads?” Tom asks.

“He’s…we don’t have a word for it, really,” Hugh says frowning. “He’s a Feline too – he’s an Abyssinian – but he doesn’t really interact that much with customers. He prefers to work with the owners – he’s very intelligent and excellent with figures. But he does keep an eye on the rest of us and looks out for our welfare.” Hugh smiles to himself. “He likes me, even when he has to tell me off.”

“Tell you off?” Tom repeats curiously, but Hugh pretends not to hear him, and starts asking about Tom’s favourite foods and where he likes to eat, and Tom lets him guide the conversation as he finishes his drink.

Hugh is engaging and very, very cute, and Tom imagines he has a lot of fans and repeat customers. He’ll admit to being charmed, but it’s with a sharp edge: the way Hugh’s ears twitch and the way he moves, graceful but playful, is so like and unlike Chris that it creates a hollow ache under Tom’s ribs. He doesn’t really want to be here, talking to this stranger; he wants to be showing Chris the wonders of Shinjuku or, better yet, at home with Chris, lying on the sofa and watching terrible action movies.

But other than that, it’s a pleasant way to while away the best part of an hour and Hugh is entertaining enough company.

The trouble starts when Tom realises he only has ten minutes left, and makes the mistake of saying this out loud.

“Is that all?” Hugh says, sounding dismayed, and then he leans forward, pushing his face closer to Tom’s. “Do you want to give me a treat?” he says in a low voice, looking up at Tom from under his eyelashes. “I’ll let you stroke my tail if you do.”

“Uh,” Tom says eloquently, thinking of Chris’s, ah, very noticeable reaction whenever he massages the base of his tail. He coughs a little, framing a polite refusal in his head, but Hugh has already taken his reaction as a yes and bounded off to fetch a peculiar box. He hands it to Tom with a bright smile and then stares at him expectantly.

Tom looks at it: it’s a variation on a kid’s electronic piggybank, where you insert money and a chocolate bar pops out. The slot is for 100 yen, which is fine, and since he can’t think of a way out of it, he fumbles for a coin and retrieves a cookie not dissimilar to Chris’s bacon biscuits, but smelling very strongly of fish.

“Here you go,” he says, holding it out to Hugh, who thankfully takes it out of his hand to eat.

“Thank you!” Hugh chirrups, settling himself at Tom’s side, facing away so his thick tail is draped over Tom’s lap as he eats his cookie, licking at his fingers between bites. Tom hesitates, hugely embarrassed. “Go on,” Hugh says, ears flicking back. “It’s fine.”

Tom sneaks a glance at the other patrons, but none are paying any attention to him, too busy with their own Felines. He probably shouldn’t; the rules were very explicit about touching, but Hugh offered and he is intrigued by the unusual texture of Hugh’s fur. Surely there can’t be any harm in it, since he genuinely has no ulterior motive.

He reaches out and slowly runs his fingers through the soft fur. It’s nothing like Chris’s silky cashmere tail; it’s dense and almost woolly, and he teases at the ringlets, fascinated at how they spring back into shape. Hugh doesn’t react at all, only interested in his treat, and Tom relaxes as he winds the corkscrew curls around his fingers.

“ _Hugh!_ ”

Tom and Hugh both freeze and then in a flash Hugh is up and off the seat, trying desperately to look nonchalant even as his fur fluffs up with anxiety. A long-legged, angular Feline is stalking towards them, his expression fierce and tail held high.

“I -” Hugh starts but the other Feline hisses at him and he edges backward.

“You _know_ that’s not appropriate behaviour with customers,” the tall Feline says, large pointed ears laid flat against his head. “Not for treats, not for toys, not for _anything_.”

“I’m sorry, Mads,” Hugh says, holding his body stiff and hunching his shoulders. “I just -”

“We need to work on your impulse control,” Mads says sternly, looming over them. “Now, can I trust you for the next ten minutes, or do I need to take you off the floor?”

“I’ll be good,” Hugh says, opening his beautiful blue eyes wide, and huh, isn’t _that_ familiar.

“Good,” Mads says, fur settling, and then he turns his attention to Tom, who tries not to look as guilty as he feels. “My apologies,” he says, although his expression implies he thinks Tom needs impulse control lessons as well. “Hugh overstepped his boundaries. Please refrain from feeding him any more treats, as he seems to be having trouble regulating his appetite.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Tom burbles, horribly aware of the way people are deliberately not staring. “I – I was just about to go, anyway.”

“I see,” Mads says, perfectly calm, which somehow makes it worse. “I do hope you have enjoyed your visit.”

Tom just nods and grabs his jacket, feeling like an absolute idiot. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t meant anything by it, he really hadn’t, and he would never have done it if Hugh hadn’t suggested it. It was just – he just really missed Chris and he’d been curious and –

Mads walks him to the door of the café, perfectly composed, Hugh trailing after.

“Goodbye,” Mads says politely, holding the door open for him. He steps through, but before he’s actually left Hugh leaps forward, sliding under Mads’s arm to tug on Tom’s sleeve.

 “I didn’t want to embarrass you, before,” he says without a hint of irony. “But I just really want to say: I loved you in _Othello_. I mean, Idris Elba was amazing too, but you were definitely my favourite,” Hugh says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Mads liked Iago too.”

“Thank you,” Tom says, surprised and flattered. So he _had_ been recognised. “That’s very kind.”

“Enjoy your time in Tokyo!” Hugh says, waving goodbye, Mads watching them both intently, and Tom waves back, feeling a little chuffed but mostly relieved as he leaves the cafe.

He ends up spending a ridiculous amount of money on the cat toys and accessories in the gift shop next door, but it’s for Chris, so he throws caution to the wind and splurges on the top-of-the-line goodies to the delight of the cashier. It’s not until he’s walking out with bulging bags that it occurs to him that what he’s doing is not wholly unlike a cheating spouse returning home with gifts and flowers for his unsuspecting partner, a thought so shocking he stops dead in the street and is then caught up in apologising for disrupting the flow of people around him.

When he gets back to his hotel room he shoves the suddenly disconcerting gifts in his suitcase and has a shower, very carefully not thinking about his motivations as he takes extra care in scrubbing his hands.

The hotel bed is clean and comfortable, if much smaller than his one at home, and yet it feels curiously empty and he struggles to get to sleep despite his exhaustion. He’s just not used to sleeping alone anymore. He thinks about calling Chris, but Chris doesn’t really like talking on the phone, and he doesn’t see the point in texts or emails. Chris is very much a face-to-face communicator, and as Tom tosses and turns in a cold bed half a world away he wishes he had brought Chris along, no matter how awkward it would have been. He misses him horribly and he hates the thought of Chris, home alone, curled up in Tom’s bed, just as restless and unhappy as Tom is right now.

But eventually sleep claims him, and he wakes in a more cheerful frame of mind. Possible sort-of-but-not-really-cheating-parallels aside, the rest of the trip goes smoothly: he’s thankfully more adjusted by the time the TV interview comes round, and he never gets tired of talking about how fascinating Iago is as a character, _Othello_ as a drama and Shakespeare in general. He then spends an entertaining afternoon larking about in front of the camera with Idris for the photoshoot and the time after that passes in a blur of good food, good company and smiling on cue until his cheeks ache, and if he catches himself listening for a meow that never comes, well, he’ll be home soon enough.

***

Its midnight by the time Tom finally makes it to his front door, his suitcase feeling ten times heavier than it did when he packed it in Tokyo. He’s so tired, but as he turns his key in the lock, there’s a flutter of excitement at the thought of seeing Chris again, of having someone to come home to.

Apparently, it’s an excitement Chris doesn’t share.

Chris is curled up in a ball on the sofa, head tucked into the back cushions, back facing outwards. His ears twitch as Tom walks into the flat, but he doesn’t even look up.

“Chris?” Tom says, confused; is he asleep? The lights are on and so is the telly. Chris has been watching a DVD and it’s still on pause.

Chris’s ears flick violently and he huffs to himself.

Not asleep then, Tom thinks, as he manhandles his recalcitrant suitcase into the flat. Just royally pissed off. Well, he can’t say he’s too surprised, since Chris could not have been clearer about his reluctance to let Tom go away without him. He thinks wistfully about the shower and long lazy cuddle he’d been dreaming of on the long plane trip back.

But he has a sulky Feline to appease first.

Chris is still curled up on the sofa, pretending to ignore Tom, although the effect is spoilt somewhat by the way his ears twist to track Tom’s movements through the flat as he chucks his suitcase into the bedroom and checks on the status of the fridge (the bacon is gone; the fruit remains). There’s just about enough room on the sofa for Tom to sit down, so he does, forcing Chris to pull his legs in further. Six foot of muscle and one very floofy tail does not a small ball of Feline make, but he’s trying his best to avoid touching Tom while simultaneously ignoring his existence.

Tom’s trying mostly not to laugh.

He picks up the TV remote in silence and squints at the screen, trying to figure out which film Chris has been watching; it looks very familiar but he can’t quite place it. He presses play, hoping it will coax Chris out of his ball of sulk.

_I hate the Moor..._

Chris has been watching Tom.

More precisely, Chris has been watching Baz Lurhmann’s _Othello_ , with Tom as Iago and Idris as Othello. While it opened worldwide in cinemas over a year ago, and was released on DVD in the UK and America soon after, it’s only just been released on DVD and Blu-Ray in Japan, hence the press event. It’s the film that launched Tom’s career, led to his sudden fame, and opened the door to his current projects.

Chris has never shown any interest in watching any of Tom’s roles before. Tom had asked Chris if he had seen any of his work, more from curiosity than vanity, and Chris had shrugged and said it wasn’t his kind of film, and he didn’t really follow celebrity news. Tom hadn’t cared, but he had pointed out the _Othello_ DVD – he’d been given multiple copies by the studio, for family and friends, and he’d given them all away bar this one, still in its wrapper – just in case Chris was ever interested.

“It’s pretty boring,” comes a muffled voice from the other end of the sofa. “But I like hearing your voice.”

“Have you watched it all the way through?” Tom asks, pausing the DVD again.

“About six times,” Chris says, unfolding just enough that he can brace his feet against Tom’s thigh, face still tucked into the cushions. “Iago’s a right arsehole.”

“Yeah, he is,” Tom says, a silly grin plastered on his face. He puts the remote back down and turns to face Chris – or at least Chris’s back. “So, am I an arsehole too?”

“Of course,” Chris sniffs, flicking his left ear.

“How can I make it up to you?” Tom says, reaching out to knead at the base of Chris’s tail. Chris chokes off a low purr.

“Steak,” Chris says, voice husky, rolling onto his back, limbs tucked in and still looking away from Tom.

“Steak?” Tom asks, running as much of Chris’s tail as he can still reach through his fingers before leaning over until he can do the same to his hair, scratching just behind his ears, trailing down Chris’s cheek to his jaw.

“Steak _after_ ,” Chris decides and unfurls in one fluid movement, blinking slowly at Tom as he does so. He’s wearing one of Tom’s t-shirts, the v-neck grey, and it’s stretched taut over Chris’s broader shoulders and chest.

It’s all he’s wearing.

“I missed you,” Tom says as he slowly blinks back. “I missed you terribly.”

“Good,” Chris says, but he’s smiling and starting to purr as Tom pulls off his leather jacket and t-shirt, and makes short work of the rest of his travel-stained clothes. Chris stays sprawled out on his back, relaxed and trusting, and lets Tom stretch out on top of him, a hithertofore unacceptable position. Chris’s hands come up to rest in the small of Tom’s back and he purrs and purrs, huge chest vibrating steadily as Tom alternates between kissing and licking at Chris’s neck.

When he lifts up to get a look at Chris’s face, Chris’s pupils are wide and black, swamping the vibrant blue, and there’s a warm flush spreading up his neck.

“Bed?” Tom says with a smile and Chris nods.

Chris seems reluctant to part with the t-shirt so Tom lets him keep it on as they get into the rumpled bed. Chris has made a kind of nest out of the bedding and Tom can picture him curled up in it, head pressed into his chest, trying to surround himself in Tom’s fading scent.

He’s rolled on his back in it now, belly up, hands tucked into his chest until he pulls Tom on top of him and holds him close, snuffling at Tom’s throat. Tom kisses him lightly on the head as he does so, exhaling as he does, letting his breath wash over Chris and tickle his ears. The separation has not been easy for either of them.

“I’ll take you with me next time,” Tom promises when Chris is satisfied, pushing the t-shirt up Chris’s chest so he can comfortably straddle his hips and runs his fingers over Chris’s taut stomach. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

“You came back,” Chris says softly, and he looks terribly vulnerable, willingly trapped beneath Tom’s long limbs. “I’m glad.”

“Of course I did,” Tom says, forehead wrinkling in concern. “You didn’t think – Chris, I wouldn’t _leave_ you. I’ll always come back.” Surely Chris knows this?

Chris looks away, and his tail flicks in agitation against the back of Tom’s thighs.

“I’m yours,” he mutters, doing a poor job of feigning a sudden interest in the floor. “But – I’ve belonged to people before. No-one’s ever _kept_ me.”

“I’ll keep you,” Tom says instantly, catching Chris under the chin and pulling his face back round. “Not because I own you. Because I love you.”

He stops, stunned at the easy way the words fell out of his mouth. He doesn’t know exactly what Chris feels – hell, he’s not even sure what Chris is capable of feeling – but he knows himself and he means every word. Chris might not be a human but he’s definitely a person and Tom loves him, truly loves him, and has no intention of ever letting him go.

Chris stares at him but Tom can’t think of anything else to say. This isn’t what he meant to happen and right now it’s too much to think about. So Tom decides to be less human about it, and returns to licking and Chris’s neck, turning to the language of their bodies to show Chris what he means.

Chris sighs and his hands come up to stroke Tom’s sides. They’ve never been in this position before, since Chris usually has a horror of being held down, and favours putting Tom flat on his back wherever possible. But he is heavy-lidded and pliable tonight, happy to have Tom kneeling over him, purr starting back up as Tom strokes him to hardness.

Chris retrieves a half-empty bottle of lube from under the pillow and Tom can’t help a grin. Looks like Chris was just as restless here as he was in his hotel room. But he makes no comment and instead slicks his fingers so he can work himself open, Chris strangely placid, happy to watch as Tom does all the work.

He gives a rumbling kind of yowl as Tom sinks slowly down on his cock, body tensing and back arching, but he lets Tom set a lazy pace, rocking back and forth and rolling his hips as Chris wraps one big hand around his burgeoning erection. It’s something new for them, this slow, gentle coupling, and it brings back that hollow ache in Tom’s chest, which blossoms into a warm sense of fulfilment as Chris stares at him in wonder, breath catching in little gasps.

It’s good and it’s sweet and Tom makes it last as long as he can, but the pleasure is building in his thighs, coiling in his spine and he moves faster, muscles clenching, moans turning to cries as his orgasm builds and crashes, sweeping him away in bliss. When he comes back to himself, Chris’s abdomen is streaked with his come and Chris is biting his lip, hips jerking even as he tries to hold back. Tom leans forward and tucks his head under Chris’s chin, licking a broad stripe over Chris’s throbbing pulse. It’s all the permission Chris needs and he grabs Tom’s asscheeks so he can lift him, working Tom’s body up and down in counterpoint with his thrusts, frantic and sloppy and perfect until his whole body goes rigid and he comes, a yowl ripping free from his throat.

Tom can’t even be bothered to clean them up and instead just rolls off, letting Chris lick lazily at his face and rub their cheeks together affectionately. He might regret it in the morning, but right now all he wants is to cuddle up and go to sleep, finally back in his own bed with Chris warm and loving beside him.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Chris says sleepily. “I love you,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, yawning hugely, and well, whatever he means by it is enough for Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I spend too much time thinking about these things: Martin is a Cairn Terrier who could do with some extra socialisation, as he has developed [Small Dog Syndrome](http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/cairnterrier.htm). If you ever get a chance to visit Shinjuku I wholeheartedly recommend the [Calico Cat Cafe](http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/japan/090406/tokyos-cat-cafes) for adorable pedigree cats and [Akihabara for the unique experience that is a Maid Cafe](http://travel.cnn.com/tokyo/drink/tokyos-best-maid-cafes-798315). Sadly, there appear to be no manips of puppy Martin or kitty Hugh Dancy or Mads Mikkelsen (yet!).

**Author's Note:**

> Update! The awesome [mrhiddles](http://mrhiddles.tumblr.com) drew fanart of naked catboy!Chris!!  
> 
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> More updates! [ohloki](http://ohloki.tumblr.com) made these fabulous edits:  
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> 


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